


The Coming Storm

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their return from a raid, Rickon and his tribe celebrate the way they know best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coming Storm

Rickon was at the front line of the raiding party, as he had been ever since he got his first taste of blood within a few short years of arriving of Skagos. In those years, he had risen from a valued member of their faction to one of the most feared warlords on the rocky island. Those who still called themselves lords called him the Wolf Prince, while the freefolk and other wildlings that inhabited the island simply called him The Shadow. Rickon didn't fashion himself as any prince. As far as he knew Winterfell was still rubble in the snow, and others either didn't care or didn't know any different to tell him otherwise.

While the tribes occasionally warred against each other, it was the shores of the North that they found their most satisfying victories. Wrapped in furs and leather, carrying swords in the most horrifying designs, they battled with the other freefolk that dared live so close to their island, and were hardly ever driven back to the sea. Their latest victory had been especially sweet. The small villages set up along the edge of the land were preparing to move again. They'd packed up their most valued belongings and gathered close for the nights of high fires and prayers to the gnarled old weirwood that they would have a safe journey as they made the treacherous move to safety further south. But that Skagosi surrounded them in the night, and moving as silent as ghosts across the snow, had swiftly slaughtered their leaders and claimed their hostages. Their roaring fires became the perfect place to roast their capture.

Those that had died in battle were thrown in the bonfire, a gift for the old gods, while each general chose his favorite from the hostages. Once each had claimed his pick, Rickon stepped forward and chose from what remained - a scowling boy a handful of years older than him, with defiant dark eyes and a scar slicing across his right cheek. He had fought hard, and his wife had already been chosen by one of Rickon's favorite generals, he felt it was only fair they be reunited in the afterlife. He grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged the boy towards the fire, where the other leaders had gathered, and turned him towards his withered friends and family. At his signal, he and the other men pulled short, curved daggers from their furs or their boots, and dragged them quickly across their hostages' throats. The fire sputtered with the shower of blood, and Rickon could see the wide eyes of the others dying across the flames.

After they had succumbed to death, each man brought his kill back to his own smaller fire, his soldiers, and spearwives, to prepare the meal for his own. But for as much as they were separate, they were also one. Hostages went around to fill their captors' cups with their own wine and mead. They were stripped of their furs and anything else valuable, they wouldn't last night if they tried to escape, and none were foolish enough to dare try to stray from the warmth of the fire, even in the smell of burning flesh now filled the air. As meat cooked and drink flowed, the men began to tell stories and sing songs of victory and glory in the afterlife. Rickon leaned back against a nearby tree, watching as hunks of meat bubbled and seared, smiling at the revelry.

It wasn't long before he had company. With blood soaking the snow-white furs around her shoulder and her braided hair dusted with snow, Osha dropped down next to him and leaned her shoulder against his.

"I remember when you were no more than a little boy squealing for his mother..." she whispered softly in his ear.

Rickon cast a glance at her and smirked. "I remember when you were nothing more than a kitchen servant," he murmured in return.

Osha gave him a displeased look, but as soon as Rickon started laughing, a smile cracked across her face. She was a spearwife again, and one of the most respected warriors in their party. Rickon hadn't made it so, she had earned that position by her own skill and fierceness, but he had claimed her for his own at the first hint of attention from the others. He was far too possessive of her to allow any other man to take her from him. She seemed grateful for it. After all, she had made a vow to protect him and Osha very much felt that he still needed her to. Perhaps he did, neither of them said anything about it to anyone, much less each other, but it was understood between them. And it was good to have someone to warm your furs with you.

She turned towards him and wiped her thumb across a cut on his nose, smearing the blood away towards the gaunt hollows beneath his eyes, which had been enhanced with dark ash and pigment the color of blood from ground weirwood seeds. It made him look all the more like a walking corpse, something that filled most men with unease. It had never bothered Osha, perhaps because she knew him for what he really was, beneath the blood and ash and paint. She knew him before Skagos had made him one of their own.

He brushed her hand away and let his fingers fall to the fur hugging her shoulders, stoking it gently. His eyes shined as he cocked his head at her, a look like something sweet was about to fall from his full mouth. Instead he grinned at her and murmured, "Turn the meat, please."

Osha snorted at him and shook her head, muttering something about men and uselessness as she leaned forward and prodded at the singed hunks of meat in their fire. It was the muscle that Rickon had carved off - thighs and legs, arms, the fatty buttocks - more than enough to fill the stomachs of those around him. And as he'd done with generals earlier, his piece would be the last piece off the fire. He didn't eat until their bellies were satisfied, even Osha's, and if there was nothing left by the sizzling skin and slices of fat, then that was what would satiate him. There were other captives, of course, put into the flames, but the one that Rickon chose and sacrificed to the gods was the one that would feed the most respected and valued of his men. He kept them close and their loyalty was sincere, if he could only reward their service with the best choices of meat, then he would do so with joy and honor.

When she settled at his side again, Rickon shifted closer, letting her slide an arm around his waist from behind, and watched as the other men began to eat, their songs still ringing through the trees, their laughter as warm as the fires scattered among them. He loved them for their cheer, for how much they rejoiced in the battle and the smell of blood. As for the woman tucked in close to him... she was the only thing in the world he hadn't lost. As his men began to take their cuts from the fire, he turned to her and smiled, placing a kiss on her jaw where blood had smeared down to her neck.


End file.
